


not used to it, but i can learn

by trustmeimthe



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Coming Out, F/F, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Gender Issues, Nonbinary Character, Pre-Relationship, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-28 07:50:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12601764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustmeimthe/pseuds/trustmeimthe
Summary: it takes a lot of alcohol to get a vampire drunk.





	not used to it, but i can learn

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this in about half an hour tonight because i started rereading monstrous regiment and was immediately bowled over with fondness for these characters, this ship, and this dynamic. as such, this has not been beta'd so feel free to let me know of any errors or if there's anything i could improve about the gender identity aspect of this fic.
> 
> title from [where the lines overlap](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=blDjUkMA9oU) by paramore, which has always been a mal/polly song to me.

"You ever think about how it doesn't even bloody matter, _really_ , when you get right down to it?"

It takes a lot of alcohol to get a vampire drunk. This is something Polly has learned over the years they've worked and traveled and lived together: that if they drink an equal amount of beer at the same pace, she'll pass out long before Maladict gets past pleasantly buzzed. This is fine, of course, because it's not as though either of them drink to get drunk. They have too many responsibilities to get properly drunk in front of their regiment because it encourages that most hideous of Abominations, stupidity. So if Mal has five drinks to Polly's one and three-quarters-ish, they end up in about the same place inebriation-wise and everyone has a decent time.

There is one exception to this habit, which is that sometimes . . . well. Apparently vampires lean on liquid courage every once in a while. This thing, whatever it is, has been building up for over a week now. Mal's been dodgy instead of carelessly clever or charmingly eager, her two default states, which means that Polly's spent a lot of time trying to figure out what the hell's going on. It's distracting for both of them, and Polly finds it annoying that Mal won't just spit it out (while admittedly not being willing to stick her neck out from nosy to assertively intrusive).

This is where Polly's mind's been during most of this conversation. Which is what happens when certain people hem and haw, she _might_ add, were she not so busy scrambling to catch up with what's been said. Something something . . . Froc, command, something . . .

Polly blinks. Polly gives up.

"What?"

Mal rolls her eyes, clanks her mug on the table for emphasis. "The whole _thing_! Where this all started, the man thing and the woman thing that everyone cares about so much, yeah?"

_Yeah_ means it's serious. Mal is always crisp, consonants rolling out of her mouth like rows of winking soldiers. Polly frowns and--stalls, to gather her thoughts. "I thought it started with war and all, Corporal." She blinks, entirely innocent. "And you not liking corsets, of course."

"Don't you Corporal me!" There's a twist of Mal's mouth that lets Polly know she is very carefully biting the inside of her cheek, careful not to puncture skin. A well-practiced nervous gesture. "You know what I mean. People caring so much when it doesn't really matter! Why does everyone care so much, Polly, honestly, when it's all . . ." And she makes a gesture with her fingertips pinched together, then exploding outwards, like a cloud of dandelion seeds.

"Well," Polly says, and thinks about it for a moment. Not stalling, just thinking. Her ultimate conclusion is: "I'm part of everyone, and I _don't_ care."

She expected, at worst, a neutral or dismissive response. What she gets instead is Mal's expression immediately clouding over. A moment of tense silence passes before she peers into her stein, scrying for who knows what in its thin and murky contents.

"Of course _you_ don't," she mutters, and downs the last of it in one go.

Polly's brow furrows. What does that even mean? What answer did Mal _want_? Or is this one of those situations where she's just meant to nod and grunt affirmatively until Mal's worked her way to whatever point she's trying to make? Fuck, that's it, isn't it. Well, damn, if Mal doesn't know by now Polly always has a rebuttal--

"Mal," she tries.

Mal wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, mouth turned down sharp and sullen. "What?"

Oh, for-- " _Mal,_ " she says again, sharper this time. Not quite sergeant voice, but closer. Mal sits up a bit automatically. "I don't know why you're angry with me all of a sudden. Honestly don't."

Mal opens her mouth and closes it again. She looks like a very sharp-toothed fish. Don't those exist? Somewhere in the jungle. But they have more sharp teeth than vampires and probably aren't as silly as Mal is under all the trappings. Mal's better.

"'M not _angry_." Mumbling is much mumblier through drunk vampire lips.

"Could've fooled me. Mal, what the fuck is going on?"

And there she goes, staring into her beer again. Polly sighs and looks down into her own. She doesn't really want to finish it now. She wants to know what's wrong, what's got Mal upset, and drinking more isn't going to make that happen.

Something about the whole stupid debate, which is still going on. Should women be allowed in the military, _really_? It's never quite resolved; sometimes Polly thinks it never will be, because there'll always be need for arguments in some people's minds. Every time it comes up, even if it's just, oh, a playful if deeply obnoxious debate overheard in a bar, Mal gets tetchy for days. Not angry, not sad, just tetchy. Jumpy. Fussy.

Every time it happens, she won't just come out and say what the problem is. Sure, sometimes Mal makes mountains out of molehills, but--

_Of course **you** don't._

Hm. Maybe sometimes Polly goes the other way. Maybe this is a mountain really, whatever it is.

Gods, she's no good at having friends.

Polly purses her lips and, with all the authority of her years as woman of the house and barmaid and sergeant pushing her forward, tugs hard on Mal's earlobe. "Oi."

Mal yelps and tries to tug away. "What the hell, Oz!"

"You're sulking," Polly says calmly as she lets go, secretly relieved she's still Oz despite whatever's going on. "Needed your attention. You paying attention to me now?"

" _Obviously,_ " Mal mumbles, rubbing life back into her ear.

"Right."

Right, and . . . now to string words together into a logical sentence. Polly frowns and folds her arms on the table, leans forward to speak lower, so the barman and the lads milling around the room haven't got a chance of overhearing.

"Right. Mal. What do you think the worst thing is you could do to me? Hm?"

Mal blanches, which is a feat since she's already so pale. "I--"

"I'll tell you," Polly continues, pushing past whatever stammering was about to come next, because it wasn't really a question at all. "It's almost biting my throat out. It's almost making me _kill_ you, Mal. And you know what? You've already done that, and you're still my best friend in the world, so whatever it is you're worried about telling me, it's not going to change how I think about you even a little. If the first couple weeks of our storied friendship didn't, nothing will."

Sometimes Mal gets this look on her face that's more lanky puppy than apex predator. This is one of those moments. She's not smiling, but her mouth has this soft curve to it, neither up nor down but blurred somehow like Polly's looking at it through sun glare.

_Idiot,_ Polly thinks fondly. This time she pinches Mal's cheek.

"Ow," Mal says, but without any fire behind it, and continues right on mooning.

Polly snorts. "All right, vicious. Are you going to tell me, now that I've stroked your ego?" Which is not what she's done, but they're both prideful in their ways.

"Um." Mal looks down at the tankard again. "I might be a bit drunk."

_Just a little._

"Right, well. You don't have to be, for the record. Might be easier if you're not, next time." Polly rests her cheek in her hand, looking Mal over shrewdly. "If you want to wait until you're not to tell me, then do that."

"That's what I want," Mal answers quickly, before subsiding back into silence for a moment. She looks so serious that Polly almost regrets coming to this bar in the first place, except--the lads needed to blow off some steam, is the one reason. And she thinks maybe this is a step forward. Hopefully?

She turns back to her beer, sniffs it, wrinkles her nose. "You don't have to say it perfectly, either, you know," she murmurs, as if to the tankard. "I know what you're like deep down."

"Oh?" Mal raises one slim black brow. "What am I like, hm?"

Polly takes a deep breath. Polly lets it out. Polly . . . elbows Mal in the ribs.

"A very lovely idiot."

Whatever else Mal is, or has been, or will be, she's Polly's friend. Whatever this is and however long it takes her to put it into words-- _that's_ what doesn't matter, really.

The fact that they get kicked out of the bar a few minutes later for wrestling so hard a passel of glasses crash to the floor is, at worst, an amusing anecdote for the future. Maybe not even that.


End file.
